D 570 



.C26 
Copy 1 




TE SOLDIER'S 
PROGRESS 




Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2011 with funding from 
The Library of Congress 



http://www.archive.org/details/soldiersprogressOOcarn 



THE SOLDIER'S 
PROGRESS 






A SENSE OF HUMOR 

HITHERTO UNKNOWN IN MILITARY ANNALS. THE 
CASE IS EXPRESSED IN THE REMARK OF DR. JOHN- 
SOn's friend EDWARDS, — HE HAD TRIED IN HIS 
TIME TO BE A PHILOSOPHER: BUT, HE DIDn't KNOW 
HOW, CHEERFULNESS WAS ALWAYS BREAKING IN." 



Copyright, 191 8 

Carnegie Institute 

of Technology 



m -8 1919 

C1A557322 



FOREWORD 

THE letters from which come the following pas- 
sages were written by students who entered the 
army from the Carnegie Institute of Technology, 
Circumstances made it easy to select the majority 
of the passages from a number of letters, readily 
available as it chanced, written by students of the 
departments of architecture, dramatic arts, and paint- 
ing. But the sterner and more practical view of the 
engineer and the industrial student is represented 
as well. 

One who reads many letters from soldiers soon 
notices how these letters supplement one another, and 
combine to tell the story of the young soldier in an 
odd but singularly complete fashion. Although each 
man in his letters relates much of the personal — 
accounts, for instance, of unusual things which be- 
fell him or others — he always tells a good deal that 
might have befallen anybody who went to war. It 
is these ordinary events of the great enterprise which 

[7] 



suggested to us the idea of piecing together out of 
many letters a single story of the student-soldier^ from 
the time he said good-bye to those at home and went 
away to training-camp^ to the hour when he saw 
action. 

To achieve a narrative of this composite kind, it 
has been necessary to pass by much of interest. But 
there are times when the commonplace tells a deeper 
story than does the extraordinary. Our sacrifice 
of the unusualy in the sense of the curious, the 
intensely personal, or the exciting, has been well 
advised if, as you read the following pages, your 
imagination, engaged with their quality, perceives 
in them occasionally the presence not of different 
young men, but of all young men, of Youth itself, 
prince of Adventurers and Crusaders. 

Haniel Long 



[8] 



THE SOLDIER^S PROGRESS 

The Last Day at Home 

Early this morning, some thirty moments before 
the sun, I dressed and sHpped from the house to go 
for a dip in "the pit,^' an abandoned stone-quarry 
nearby. It is about a third full of spring water, 
twenty or thirty feet deep, and blue-green as only 
spring water can be. After my plunge I scaled the 
clifF-like walls naked and perched high on a stone, 
waiting the sun. I busied myself by drawing on 
the dew-covered leaves of a mullein the initials 
of all my friends. That mullein, a lusty one, 
did not have leaves enough for all the people I 
could think of with pleasure. True, some people 
need several leaves, for they contain many 
lovable persons in one. Then the sun came up, 
a magnificent rose of yellow. With all of this 
I am back at home writing my good-byes before 
any of my lazy family are apparent. 

[9] 



THE SOLDIER S PROGRESS 



At Camp 

From the day we landed, to pass under the door- 
way of the infirmary for examination and inocu- 
lation, and subsequently to hold up our hands, 
solemnising our determination in the good cause, 
from that day existence has changed as if one 
abruptly turned a sharp corner, or as if Chapter 
Nine ran out somewhere in the middle, and 
Chapter Ten was printed boldly and firmly on 
the opposite page. 

The Machine 

The regime, the organization, the progress of the 
days, and above all the discipline, have taken 
hold of us, first from the finger-tips, then grad- 
ually, more and more, as a Cuban cane-crusher 
draws in a sugar-cane stalk. For there is no 
resisting, no holding back. 

Yet there is a curious sense of satisfaction in 
playing the game at last, "being in it." You pity 

[lO] 



THE SOLDIER S PROGRESS 



those who are not. You have a great sense of 
responsibiUty enhanced. Yet there were many 
things in the world to do. And the platoon 
swings by a pool under a willow. 

To a Friend Awaiting the Draft 

I TAKE it that the war dominates your thoughts. 
In this I can sympathise with you. I went through 
a struggle too, and I well know what a struggle it 
is. It is not to any man's discredit. Most men, it is 
true, do not go through certain phases of this 
psychological experience; but the greatest test of 
character conceivable ensues when a man of fine 
instincts comes up against the army game and 
meets it without flinching. I am convinced many 
men in the camp are doing this, whose outward 
appearance conceals the fact. 

Your feelings may be more finely shaped than 
mine were, but even so you will make it all right. 
Necessarily you are thrust in with men of all 
types. Certain I came in contact with I thought 

[II] 



THE SOLDIER S PROGRESS 



I could not endure. But we are beginning to 
understand each other. And each week in the 
army improves the personal behavior of every 
man; so that some things which irritate at first 
disappear in the course of time. 

Some Comfort 

I HAVE doubts about my abilities in other direc- 
tions, but I am beginning to believe that I shall 
make a pretty good soldier. I may not be built 
like a bull, but I can place a hand-grenade where 
I want it, and I have thrown away my glasses 
and become a pretty good shot. 

Keep it Dark 

I CAN manage to dope out gun ranges and deflec- 
tions, but ril be damned if I can tell you why. 
Keep this to yourself, though : if Pershing should 
ever find out, he might get sore. 

[12] 



THE soldier's PROGRESS 



Mess 

Soldiers think a lot about food. Why shouldn't 
they? What other art — some say, what other 
religion — follows us in this adventure ? 

The New Environment 

Of the larger and more spiritual aspect of this 
strange life, I shall say nothing now. I am just 
beginning to realize it. There are matters that 
every man comes into in his own way, and 
according to the design and glory of his own 
inner soul. There is no formula to follow for 
the perfect in this new environment, unless it be 
to enter into the open and generous spirit. Some 
men call it fatalism. I don't call it that. Whatever 
I do feel comes from a sense of responsibility to 
myself, a faith in myself, and above all an abiding 
hope for better days to come. A fatalist does 
not go beyond the present hour. I haven't got 
to that state yet. 

[13] 



THE soldier's PROGRESS 



Evening 

At night one always becomes more or less 
moody — at least I do — hates the war, and this 
camp life, and longs to hear beautiful music, to 
have the good things there are in the world which 
one didn't appreciate before. 

Spared a Lot of Trouble 

Last night a large assortment of draft recruits 
wandered in. The tale goes that one lonely 
soldier of the several hundred was billed for us; 
but when he came to understand his fate he 
jumped out of the train and was killed. As my 
grandmother used to say, "He's spared a lot of 
trouble, poor dear.'' I can realize that a man 
who might have been brave enough or indifferent 
enough, had he thought to choose his adventure, 
might have only the courage to escape when 
choice was denied him. 

[14] 



THE SOLDIER S PROGRESS 



The Mud. At Newport News 

We are right on the water here, and It is all new 
to me. I really do not believe in the ships yet, 
though I see them 'way out, covered with unre- 
ality. We may be here six months. We may be 
here six days. Meanwhile the mud grows ever 
deeper. 

Off to the Ship 

The trip from Quantico to the troop-ship I'll 
never forget. It was the regular route for troop- 
trains, but still no one seemed hardened to the 
sight. I didn't think there were so many nice 
people in America. Whenever the train slowed up, 
people came crowding out to wish us luck. The 
Red Cross were very good, too, passing out coffee, 
ice-cream, and cigarettes at all opportunities. 
When the train ran through streets of towns, all 
traffic stopped and every one turned to face us 
and wave till we were out of sight. Now and then 

[15] 



THE soldier's PROGRESS 



a Civil War veteran rushed out from somewhere 
with all the flags he could carry. It was fine, 
especially when you think that those people were 
probably doing the same thing every day. 

Now for the News 

I AM in France. I came over on a boat. There is 
a war over here. I can't tell you where I am, 
what boat I came on, how long it took; nor can I 
tell you whom the war is with. These items the 
censor forbids, but to the rest you are welcome. 

French Mud 

Lots of mud over here, too. Don't think Fm 
sentimental, but as an honest fact French mud, 
so far as Fve experienced it, is finer than American 
mud. It's only a foot thick, and underneath, one 
can reach to hard ground. It was not so at Hamp- 
ton Roads. There one could sink forever, in 
caverns fathomless to man. 



i6 



THE SOLDIER S PROGRESS 



The French — Their Voices 

I LIKE the French very much. They are simple, 
frank, open-hearted, and they are very kind and 
generous to us Americans. Even if they have but 
a Httle, the children are willing to share a part 
of it. I love to hear them talk, especially the 
women. They speak with so much inflection and 
change of register, and their manner of speaking 
seems to give them good voices, so that when they 
speak it is not the even monotone of American 
speech, but is like music as their voices change to 
suit the expression. 

I went to a service in a cathedral one Sunday, 
and instead of a sermon delivered in the half-sung 
monotone of our preachers at home, I heard a 
master-piece of musical diction which thrilled me 
through. I understood but little of it. The service 
was a Solemn High Mass in memory of the dead 
French soldiers. My comrades and I ascended 
a winding staircase inside a huge Gothic column, 

[17] 



THE soldier's PROGRESS 



and watched the service from the gallery. It was 
most impressive in its colour, music and symbol- 
ism, and its general atmosphere. To look down 
upon the thousands of women in mourning, and 
the few old men, was to know in a new way what 
war means. 

A Chateau 

The chateau is set in a department where even 
the smallest hovel bears some traces of formality. 
Yet it has all the natural informality of a New 
England hillside. And not without a fine appear- 
ance of architectural composition. It was very 
evidently the work of a man who was truly an 
architect. Not the kind we best know with shiny 
brass name-plates at their doorways, but a man 
of great native instinct for the beautiful. He 
was a farmer of ordinary wealth, and had a 
family of children, who, as various accoutrements 
showed, had been well entertained. 

[i8] 



THE SOLDIER S PROGRESS 



The day I first saw it was our first of real Spring 
weather; soft, warm, quiet, and teeming with the 
oncoming Hfe. Quite alone, with tiny islanded 
lakes, it seemed a fairy home, and each step I 
took beat in my heart like a bit of poetry. Almost 
unknowingly I found myself uttering line after 
line of perfect contentment and pure joy. 

I drew a small map of the place to help me tech- 
nically, but I feel I owe this chateau a tribute for 
many things it has taught my spirit. 

Curator of the Brigade Prison 

I AM now curator of the Brigade prison, the same 
being a very fine prison as prisons go. It has a 
high barbed-wire fence, wickedly-armed guards, 
balls and chains and everything. I wear an enor- 
mous pistol to scare the prisoners with — I hope 
they are as much afraid of it as I am. Nobody 
outside the army has any idea what red tape 
really is: it seems to me sometimes that half 
the army is made up of clerks. They put in their 

[19I 



THE soldier's PROGRESS 



time writing letters and filling out forms or else 
trying to figure out what the other fellow meant 
by his letters and forms. We use up reams of 
paper right here in this office keeping the records 
of some three-or four-score prisoners. 

Dressing 

First call finds me half-awake and only one- 
quarter conscious of the dreadful fact that I must 
get up. My bunkie's dig in the ribs, and a shout 
close to the ear, results in vivid life. I reach 
under my head and draw forth a part of a pillow. 
With an upward movement I force my head and 
shoulders into it. It is olive-drab in colour, and 
what the washerwoman at the end of the village 
calls a "chemise." Then comes a^- slip-on sweater. 
Five-thirty finds my lower part still under cover. 
So by a reciprocating movement my pillow disin- 
tegrates, and accumulates upon my person till I 
am dressed. The top-sergeant's whistle finds me 
slipping over the edge of my pigeon-nest into 

[20] 



THE SOLDIER S PROGRESS 



my boots, and as that wretched tribe of brass 
blares forth assembly I make one grand leap into 
line. 

Modeling-Clay 

Do YOU remember the modeling clay we used to 
use? Imagine a sea of it, in which you can hardly 
wiggle your boots. On rainy days we stand each 
of us at the bottom of a skid, and see to the safe 
deposit of 90-lb. rails, 40 feet long, which four 
husky boys hurl down at us from flat cars. And 
every time we try to move, the clay for yards 
about seems disturbed. 

A Ridge of France 

To-day I found myself in the intervals of work 
looking off into the hills with a grey-blue sky 
overhead. There is a ridge of France that rises 
out of the level like the prow of a battleship, 
shaking itself free from some gigantic wave. The 

[21] 



THE soldier's PROGRESS 



dark pines away from the morning sun seem the 
shadowed side of the ridge itself, and the bare 
side of the hill, slightly dotted with brush, drops 
to the light. 

I would love to explore it all, if I could pass the 
guard. But we have been told that God did not 
make all that inviting bit of scenery. 

Everywhere from our mushy, miry, muddy pla- 
teau are blue hills, and when the wind is against 
the guns one can forget. And there are white- 
toothed poplars there, bearing big balls of mis- 
tletoe. Mountains, gentle mountains, are about 
us, and in the descending steep sometimes a 
church spire rises up, and round it are white 
houses with shining red roofs, that show warm 
hearts beneath. 

Sitting Under Some Shade-Tree 

I HAVE mentioned our continuous rain and more 
continuous sticky mud. We were in tents one 



[22] 



THE SOLDIER S PROGRESS 

night recently, and to venture forth at night was 
the sacrifice of a martyr. But one chap volun- 
teered to quench eight thirsty throats by a trip 
to the water-bag. So laden, with eight canteens, 
he slipped with a splash into a perfect setting for 
the launching of Noah's ark. We couldn't even 
hear his footsteps for the rain on the canvas. 
Business of continuing conversation. Suddenly, 
with many unrepeatable words, a youthful, un- 
soldierlike figure, completely draped, strapped 
and bound by old U. S. Army canteens, but more 
completely hidden by oozing, shining mud, ap- 
peared at the flaps. What one could descry of his 
face was ample explanation. Chorus of voices, 
no one stirring an inch to help him untangle — 

^* Bring me my carafe!" 

''Why didn't you carry a lantern?" 

"Wipe your feet on the mat!" 

''Where the hell have you been? Sitting under 
some shade-tree?" 

[23] 



THE soldier's PROGRESS 



The French 

French plumbing is not highly developed, but 
they are an impossibly kind people. As to formal 
gardening, they are past masters of the art. 
Their collection of colourings in chrysanthemums 
at this time of year can not be surpassed; I feel 
sure that in this country everything has a touch 
of the well planned and well executed, even to 
the strip of flowers by the roadside. 

Spring 

There is a constant current of happy, boyish glee 
that is entirely American, in surroundings of 
grotesqueness and impossibility. We are all in 
great health, and now that the crowbar and the 
shovel no longer cut our hands, much is forgotten. 
If nothing else, I can at least say I have known 
melancholia in its deepest form. It all goes into 
experience, just as, with the new breath of Spring 

[24] 



THE SOLDIER S PROGRESS 



in the air and the surety of friendship still flaming 
back home, I am sure it will all go into the book 
of pleasant memories. 

Relief 

We are like people down in a well living in foul 
air. A little beauty lets in the air, and enables 
us to see the stars again. There's a mixed figure, 
I see. But a few notes on the violin, the reading 
of a stanza of poetry, tells us of a fairer heaven 
than theologian ever pictured. One doesn't know 
how completely the whirlwind of war has caught 
him until a blinding strain of music lifts him from 
earth for a moment. 

Influences in the Air 

Religion had never actually ofi^ered a suflGicient 
reality to me to cause me any deep thought, till 
I found release for some odd self in me in the so- 
called bluer moods of poetical expression. Often- 

[25] 



THE soldier's PROGRESS 



times I work myself into a black despair that 
would just tear out my heart and soul. A hurried 
walk or a few silent hours alone, and suddenly 
release comes through my pencil. Over here the 
urge to write poetry 

Army Beans 

I HAVE had some disagreeable experiences. This 
life is very gregarious, and one grows weary of his 
fellows. But it is remarkable how a square meal 
of army beans will change one's whole view of 
life, and make the unpleasant past as dead as 
Babylon. 

As to boredom, we are kept well alive to it by 
exercising constantly. That's rather hard to 
understand, I guess. But it is true. 

Dead Mule — and Other Things 

We have seen the real thing, but if ever I have 
to smell anything dead again I won't be respon- 
sible for my actions. There are few things as 

[26] 



THE soldier's PROGRESS 



unpleasant as lying in a dugout or a shell-hole all 
day with nothing to do but listen to shells and 
smell dead mule — and other things. And there 
are people back home who want to keep tobacco 
from us. . . . 

The Machine Gun 

By the way, machine guns are not cranked. I 
understand the Catlings used at San Juan did 
have cranks, but those in use at present have 
triggers. You lie on your belly, not stomach, 
belly^ and probably in the mud, and you're 
probably hungry and thirsty, and you're dirty — 
in fact, so dirty that you stink, not smell, stink; 
and the stiffs lying in the near vicinity stink too, 
only worse, and you're all in, dog-tired; and the 
gas-mask gets your goat so badly that you whip 
it off and sling it fifty feet, not throw it, sling it, 
and the gun gets so damn hot that you burn your 
fingers getting the magazine off: and if she jams 
when she's hot like that and Fritz is coming 

[27] 



THE SOLDIER S PROGRESS 



your way, — ^well, you're out o' luck, and if youVe 
a pin or a gat. handy you grab it and get busy, 
and if you haven't, you just get up and run like 
hell in the general direction of the west coast of 
France. That is, if you've got any sense! 

The Dead 

When the big doings were on, I was surprised at 
the way the dead affected me. They lay along 
the river banks and in the woods, one here, three 
there, in all sorts of odd attitudes. Now and then 
there would be a dead man by the side of the 
path on a litter. Some had blood about their 
nostrils, some had head and shoulders blown 
away. Yet I had no feeling of horror or even of 
sympathy. They were not like the dead at home, 
washed and combed and faultlessly attired in 
awful dignity amid silks and flowers. The forest 
was not a death-house, but a monstrous wax- 
works; and some of the figures were broken. 
They lay out there for days. A German turns 

[28] 



THE soldier's PROGRESS 



the color of his uniform after a few days. . . . 

I remember one man's speaking of the terrible 
look In the eyes of his friend. It didn't seem that 
way to me. They were just the blue eyes of a 
doll that gaze at something a great ways off. 
There was perhaps a suggestion that behind the 
eyes a soul might still be lurking. But I have 
always felt that way about the dead. 

In the main the bodies were just manikins, 
figures that might be broken. But their attitudes 
could never be changed. One looked at them and 
left them. 

I have written no poems. 

My senses are awake to every pleasurable 
sensation, but my mind trots a worn road with 
Its eyes closed. 

Sorry to Interfere With Their Washing 

We occupied a sector with the French, and saw 
many Germans get up from cover. We commenced 



[29] 



THE soldier's PROGRESS 



picking them off. The poilus were very angry 
at this. It seems the French were in the habit of 
washing their clothes one day and hanging them 
out to dry without molestation from the Germans, 
and on the following day the courtesy was ex- 
tended to Fritz by the poilus. We didn't know 
about this, and the poilus said: ^'A few Germans 
more or less make no difference. You can never 
win the war that way." We were very sorry to 
interfere with the washing of either Frenchies or 
Germans. 

Tintern Abbey 

Queer surroundings, but last week for the first 
time I read and reread Lines Written a Few Miles 
Above Tintern Abbey dreaming and drifting away 
in its possibilities to me. It seems as though, even 
if I had never been taught the lessons of Christ, 
I should find Him in the magic of those Hues. 

[30] 



THE SOLDIER S PROGRESS 

Casus Belli 

The world has clung too fondly to its wealth, 
its traditions, its superstitions. It has ignored 
the realities of life. This war destroys some of 
those things, and makes people give up their hold 
on others. Calamity and the destruction of 
forms which had been hindering life's progress, 
will force people to search deeper for comfort. 
The war will result in benefit to the arts, social 
conditions, education, and religion. Meanwhile, 
most of us are tired to death of not going to the 
front. The country is all right, but there's nothing 
to do or to see when you're a doughboy. 

Too Religious 

A THING we used to swear at was the gas mask. 
We swear by it now. You have heard of the Bible 
in the pocket saving a man's life. I saw a man in 
the woods gassed to death— gas-mask in one hand, 
Bible in the other. If he had not been so religious 

[31] 



THE soldier's PROGRESS 



he would have had both hands for the gas-mask, 
and wouldn^t have needed the Bible. 

Reflections 

I FIND myself crabbing and complaining and 
bemoaning at times, but later I generally face the 
real issue to myself, and I know there was nothing 
to admire about my attitude. The Kaiser played 
us all for suckers when he started through Bel- 
gium back in '14. Sacrifice is a plain duty now, 
not an imposition. 

Crudey but Picturesque 

I WANDERED over to the first BattaHon to see a 
friend who used to spend his time telling what a 
worthless gang of animals his company is. " How 
did the rummy bunch show up?'^ I asked him. 
He looked at me with a cold stare. "This,'* he 
said, "is the best bunch of men in the whole 
damned army. There ain't a man what won't walk 

[32] 



THE soldier's PROGRESS 



right up to a German machine gun and spit in 
its eye.'^ 

Chateau- Thierry 

We are resting now after a somewhat strenuous 
time. The Germans made a drive and planned 
a pretty rapid advance. They moved at the 
anticipated speed, but not in the anticipated 
direction. Our organisation made a splendid name 
for itself. When we tramped back, after being 
relieved, the band was at the side of the road and 
the colors were unfurled. We looked like a bunch 
of tramps, our clothes were torn, we were dirty 
and hairy and tired. But when we saw those 
colors pass the reviewing place . . . ! 

Bright Eyes 

He was a mere child — we called him Bright Eyes. 
I heard afterward he was from Tech. I didn't 
know he was gone until I found his grave, a filled- 

[33] 



THE SOLDIER S PROGRESS 



in shell-hole with a split-rail cross and his dog- 
tag nailed to it. 

In Another Recaptured Village 

I SAW by the roadside a young girl who, rumour 
had it, was in the town when our troops took it. 
She was a big blonde girl, pale and magnificently 
erect. Her chin was set and she stared ahead 
while all the triumph of a conquering army 
hurried past her. Whether she was French or 
German I do not know. There are blonde girls 
in that part of France. . . . 

Gothic 

I HAVE been thinking of Hearn^s fear of something 
"that haunted the tops'' of Gothic arches. Did 
you ever see a person enter a Gothic church of 
beauty who did not look upward first? Or a 
person of religious mind who did not, after the 
first lowering of the head upon entering a holy 

[34] 



THE soldier's PROGRESS 



edifice, look heavenwards and expand his bosom? 
And among the trees at your own home, how 
often have you glanced upward? Gothic is first 
of all a natural expression of the spirit; and since 
it is natural, is logical and all else. The logic 
of Greece and the materialism of Rome could 
never comprehend a single line of Rheim.s. That 
sounds as though I had read it, and perhaps I 
have. But Rheims now! . , . 

A Recovered Village 

Not long ago we passed through some towns 
that the Germans had held since the beginning 
of the war. There were no houses, just ragged 
walls and heaps of stones. The roads were blocked 
with trafiftc. OflScers were inspecting the ruins 
for mines and traps. Before the village Mairie 
were refugees sitting on their little bundles. They 
had come home! 

Some of the old people had been left behind by 

[35] 



THE soldier's PROGRESS 



the Germans. I saw two women so old and 
crumpled they might have been the very ones 
who knitted to the cadence of the guillotine in 
Paris long ago. 

One Night on the Marne 

One night on the Marne, while the great second 
battle was on, I met a friend. We had only a few 
minutes together, but I managed to give him 
the address of a friend of both of us whom I had 
just heard from. He was a fine chap, the absent 
friend, and I had known him when we flew our 
kites in Highland Park. 

I was badly hit when I learned he had been 
killed. The other day I received a letter from the 
fellow I had met on the Marne. He was in hos- 
pital. He wrote: "Dab's snuffing out is bad. I 
knew it the night I talked to you, but couldn't 
say anything to you when you gave me his 
address." 

[36] 



THE soldier's PROGRESS 



From a German Prison 

I AM doing a deal of plain ordinary labor, of a 
farming nature mostly. No latent agricultural 
powers in me have as yet been tapped, nor has 
my training at Tech equipped me for the life of 
the farmer — in which self-estimate I find my Ger- 
man captors naively concurring. However, I am 
trying to emulate Leonardo da Vinci in grasping 
all that this great world has to offer, striving for 
a degree of universality. . . . 

We are beneficially in touch with the Red Cross 
and the Y.M.C.A. 'Way off here, cloistered in the 
quiet lowlands of Baden, we feel the strength and 
purity of our homeland, the spirit of America 
comes to us every day in full force. Nothing 
stops it, not even the Rhine, the Black Forest, 
the topless Alps. Be it months or years before 
we get back, believe me, the eyes of American 
boys are constantly turned to the west; and the 
days bring only surety. 

[37] 



THE soldier's PROGRESS 



A Day Off 

Recently I had the good fortune of a day all to 
myself. I set out in high excitement across a 
meadow so thickly sprinkled with marigold that 
it seemed a very quilt of splendor for Springtime 
on these chilly nights. My path took me through 
a forest to a vale. Happiness leaped beside me. 
I have never felt so near the answer to the riddle 
of life as on that day. 

Half-way up the valley I noticed that every- 
where were the purple, funereal flowers of the myr- 
tle. They became more predominant, and sudden- 
ly I had to stop and bow my head. My spirit had 
changed, and I could see and feel only the agony 
of France, 

Drop in on Me 

Drop in on me and talk through one of these 
fine moonlit nights, of things and ideas and ideals 
(aside from military) occupying the thoughts and 

[38 ] 



THE soldier's PROGRESS 



hopes of man. Poetry, music, and art may all be 
dead as far as I know from direct information. 
But a night or two on guard, or a twilight, tells 
much aside from the streaks of low purring planes 
overhead, thundering guns, whistling shells, and 
crack-crack of machine guns. And so the hours 
thereafter in dugouts bring quiet sleep. 

Beauty 

There are a lot of peace rumours in the papers 
now. They make my gorge rise. There can be no 
peace with Germany whole and France in ruins. 
But the strangest thing I have seen. . . . Even 
the cannon can but make the French towns more 
beautiful. 



[39] 



